“Does the snow not reveal anything?”
Holmes gave a hapless shrug of the shoulders. “About activities conducted a week ago? No. As at the castle gatepost, too much time has passed and too much new snow has fallen in the interim. The grass stems on the bank retain the imprint of the Thurrick’s passage, but I found that particular piece of evidence because I was looking for it explicitly and had a fairly good idea where it might lie.” He wafted a hand towards the expanse of open ground that lay beyond, dotted with shrubbery and hillocks. “To search for similar traces across the good hectare of land we see before us would be a fool’s errand. It would be like looking for…”
“…a needle in a haystack,” I finished for him.
“Again, the right proverb for any occasion,” Holmes said, eyebrow arching. “You are a veritable Brewer’s, Watson. All is not lost, though. If for the moment we leave aside the possibility of an accomplice being involved, where might our Thurrick have travelled onward with his burdensome load? If the sack was as heavy as his stooped posture implies, he would surely not have cared to go very far. It is also likely, now that I think of it, that he is of slim build.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Were the Thurrick as heavy as, say, me, then his weight, combined with that of the sack, would put him at undue risk on this ice. If that is the case, then he is exceptionally courageous.”
“Or exceptionally rash,” I said.
“Well, quite. The more so in the event that he was performing multiple journeys back and forth across the lake. But back to my previous avenue of enquiry. Where did he go from here? He would have deposited the sack, or at least its contents, somewhere not too far from here, somewhere conveniently situated…”
Holmes started scanning the vicinity, his gaze sweeping in an arc from left to right like the beam from a lighthouse.
Then, with a sudden start, he cried, “Needle in a haystack! Watson, you have done it again! In your chronicles of my exploits you often paint yourself as something of a dunderhead, but that does you a disservice. You are little short of a genius!”
Flattered though I was to be thus acclaimed, I was utterly in the dark regarding the nature of the inspiration I had sparked in Holmes. I opened my mouth to beg for clarification, but my friend was already off, bounding across the snow with rapid strides. We had been standing still for some while, and it took me a moment or two to stir my numb limbs and chase after him. I am sure Holmes was feeling the biting cold as keenly as I, but he seemed immune to its effects. I could only assume the excitement of following clues acted as an extra layer of insulation.
Our destination was a copse of conifers that stood some three hundred yards from the lake, their snow-weighted branches hanging almost to the ground. As Holmes parted the pendulous fronds, dislodged snow tumbled down upon him from above in glittering, iridescent spicules. He plunged into the copse, and I saw nothing of him for a full minute, instead only hearing him as he trod around and let out the occasional murmur or muted cry.
Eventually he said, “Watson, would you care to join me?”
I thrust my way into the copse, where I found Holmes on hands and knees, inspecting the soil. The trees provided a thick canopy that snow could not penetrate. There was just bare earth around the bases of their trunks.
“What do you see?” Holmes asked.
“A man ruining his trousers.”
“Aside from that.”
“Soil.”
“Precisely.”
“What of it?”
“What does one normally find lying beneath conifers? Needles and pinecones, of course. A thick bed of needles and pinecones, which the trees have shed.”
“Ah, so when I mentioned a needle in a haystack…”
“My mind alighted upon the idea of the needles of coniferous trees, such as the ones in this copse which happened to lie within my field of vision. But back to my point. Here on the ground, in place of needles and pinecones, there is a layer of soil. We have to dig through it to find what we would otherwise expect to.” Holmes demonstrated by clawing away handfuls of the loose earth to reveal the matted brown needles and occasional pinecone beneath. “Now, why would that be? What makes this copse so exceptional?”
My face must have registered blankness, for he tutted and said, “The soil has been transported hither and distributed evenly over the ground.”
“Transported and distributed by… the Black Thurrick.”
“I would have thought it the most elementary of deductions,” Holmes said with some asperity.
“His sack contained soil, then?”
“That is what I am saying, Watson. Soil removed from elsewhere and disposed of in this copse, out of sight, where it is highly unlikely to be stumbled upon by another party. Several sacks’ worth of the stuff, I would say.”
“I cannot for the life of me fathom the purpose of that.”
“I am entertaining one or two hypotheses, but none that I can affirm with any great certitude as yet.” Holmes straightened up, brushing down his trouser legs. “Well, this has been a useful exercise, but I think you and I have communed with Mother Nature long enough for one morning. What say we repair to the castle and find ourselves a roaring fire to get the circulation going again, eh?”
“I doubt I have ever heard a more agreeable proposal,” said I.
Chapter Eleven
AN ADDITIONAL BENEFIT OF DOMESTIC RETAINERS
The hearth in the main hall at Fellscar was blessedly ablaze, and Holmes and I luxuriated in its radiance until the chill was banished from our bodies. Throughout, I noticed Holmes’s gaze wandering time and again to the shield that hung above the mantel. At one point I caught him tapping a forefinger against the cleft in his chin, a mannerism I had come to associate in my friend with a state of deep concentration.
Whatever it was that he found so absorbing about the shield eluded me. It was a rather plain escutcheon, as these things go, with only the prancing lion on top lending it any great visual interest. I had seen many a family coat of arms with more to commend it to the eye.
Thanks to our excursion around the lake, we had arrived back at the castle after the coachload of Allerthorpes had departed for Yardley Cross. It is an odd sensation to be a guest in someone’s house when the hosts are absent, even if only temporarily. It feels almost as though one is an intruder, and one is loath to make oneself seem too much at home, lest it be construed as impolite.
I voiced this sentiment to Holmes, who replied to the contrary.
“For our purposes, Watson, the position could not be more advantageous.”
“I do not see how, but I imagine you are about to tell me.”
“Who is at Fellscar now but us and the servants?” said he. “And one must never underestimate the usefulness of servants when it comes to criminal detection. You will recall our involvement some four years ago in the matter of Lady Eva Brackwell and the blackmailer Charles Augustus Milverton.”
“All too well,” I said with a shudder of revulsion. “You dubbed the latter ‘the worst man in London’, and you were not far wrong.”
“You will also recall how I, in the course of my investigation, adopted the guise of a rather roguish plumber, Escott by name, and wormed my way into the affections of Milverton’s housemaid Agatha.”
“You did somewhat more than that. You became engaged to the girl.”
Holmes acknowledged this with an unabashed bow. “For as long as was necessary. When I broke it off…”
“At my insistence. You would have been happy simply to disappear from her life, never to be seen again. That would not have been fair.”
“When, at the insistence of the most scrupled man I know, I broke it off,” Holmes resumed, “Agatha soon got over her heartache and found consolation in the arms of my love rival. As I understand it, they are married now and have a child, with another on the way, so all is well. No harm done. But what was the aim of my deception?”
“You learned from the
maid the exact layout of her master’s house, so that we might burgle it.”
“The point of this little reminiscence being simply to remind you that domestic retainers can be a mine of useful information, which the diligent prospector may extract by means of painstaking, methodical digging. A servant sees more, hears more, knows more about his employer’s doings than even the employer’s dearest friends. Likewise he or she possesses an intimate understanding of the day-to-day workings of the household, which may prove invaluable. If one can crack the shell of the individual’s discretion, one can bring to light all manner of facts one might otherwise never have learned. And hark! I hear just such a person approaching now.” He lowered his voice to a level only I could hear. “Why, I do believe it is Trebend. What luck. The very member of staff I was most hoping to talk to, for who is a greater authority on life both below stairs and above than a butler? Quick, Watson. Look casual. No, not like that. Not so stiff. More natural. That’s better.”
Trebend glided into the hallway, pausing to direct a courteous nod towards Holmes and me.
“Good day to you, Mr Trebend,” said Holmes.
“Good day, sir.”
“I gather Dr Watson and I have been abandoned. The family have gone to church.”
“That is so. They should be back around noon. Is there anything I may help you with?”
“Not at present, thank you. This excellent fire is providing all we could ask for. Unless, that is, you would be willing to satisfy my curiosity on a few small matters.”
“I shall endeavour to do so, sir,” said the slenderly built servant, “although I must point out that I have a great many demands on my time just at present. Mr Allerthorpe has tasked me with overseeing personally the erection and decoration of the Christmas tree. The gardener and two of the footmen are even now bringing said tree in from outside. Furthermore, sundry Allerthorpe kin are due to arrive today for the celebrations, and I am to arrange the distribution of them amongst the guest bedrooms.”
“Of course, of course,” said Holmes sympathetically. “And how are the Allerthorpes to work for?”
“I’ve no cause for complaint, sir. None whatsoever.”
“I imagine Thaddeus Allerthorpe keeps you on your toes.”
“I have been in service my entire adult life. I have suffered worse masters.”
“Does he pay well?”
“My salary is perfectly adequate, commensurate with my station.”
“And you feel well treated by him and the rest of the family?”
“Why should I not?”
Trebend was becoming pained and even a touch testy. He was impatient to get on with his duties, but more than this, I could tell that Holmes’s probing was discomfiting him. He was loath to be drawn on the subject of his employers, doubtless through ingrained professional discretion.
My friend seemed to sense the same thing, for he changed tack. “I note that your accent is not a local one.”
“It is not, sir.”
“Other staff, those whom I have heard speak, speak uniformly in a Yorkshire brogue. You are clearly a Londoner.”
“Born and bred, sir.”
“Yet the surname Trebend betrays Cornish roots, does it not? Many a name in Cornwall, whether place or person, begins with the ‘Tre-’ prefix.”
“Well, that’s as maybe. I am not one who has been bothered overmuch about his genealogy. Although, come to think of it, I do recall my father once mentioning something about ancestors in Cornwall. Bodmin, I think he said.”
“Nevertheless, you are a fair way from London.”
“A man may travel where he likes, sir, and take work where he finds himself,” said Trebend with a complaisant smile. “As it happens, I consider the neck of the woods where I have fetched up to be very congenial. Some consider the landscape rather too rugged and bare, but I, having grown up amid the hurly-burly of a city, find its wildness and emptiness bracing. The locals are friendly, too, more so than in London. I have been made to feel quite at home.”
“Then there is your wife’s marmalade,” I interposed good-humouredly.
“You are correct about that, Doctor. Margery’s marmalade is a significant regional attraction.”
“She cited it as the reason you will never sue for divorce.”
“Said that, did she?” Briefly, Trebend’s lugubrious expression softened into something close to amusement. “Well, she may not be wrong. But she, above all else, accounts for why this Londoner has found a contented berth in the East Riding. She is a fine woman, as anyone with eyes can see. I knew, from the day I took up my post at the castle, that she would become my wife.”
“Mrs Trebend was here at Fellscar before you?” Holmes said.
“She was, sir. She has been the family cook for nigh on a decade.”
“And how long have you yourself been in the Allerthorpes’ employ?”
“A little over two years. And now really, gentlemen, if you will excuse me. There is much to be done.”
“Of course,” said Holmes, with a gesture that craved pardon. “We have detained you long enough.”
After Trebend was gone, Holmes tugged my sleeve and said, “To the kitchen. You have already made the acquaintance of Mrs Trebend. I should like to do so myself. She sounds a redoubtable woman, and moreover she is among those select few who can lay claim to having seen an actual ghost. I am keen to interrogate her on the topic.”
“Please be circumspect, Holmes,” I said. “Mrs Trebend is such a marvellous cook. I should hate for you to aggrieve her and thus possibly impair the quality of her fare. Mealtimes are about the only thing that makes staying at Fellscar Keep bearable.”
“Ever mindful of your gastric welfare, Watson,” said Holmes, “I shall, I assure you, be the soul of tact.”
Chapter Twelve
THE SMELL OF MELANCHOLY
The kitchen was full of steam and scurrying bodies. At the centre of it all, the calm hub amid the frenzy, was Mrs Trebend, labouring over the stove and occasionally doling out commands. The two legs of mutton I had seen her with earlier were being transformed into a casserole, and the smell which emanated from the bubbling pot in front of her was so appetising that my stomach started to growl.
“Can you come back later?” the lady said to Holmes plaintively. “I have two dozen extra people to prepare lunch for, and after that, supper for the same number plus a further dozen.”
“I beg just five minutes of your time, my good woman. You can surely spare me that.”
“What is it concerning?”
“Oh, this and that,” Holmes said airily.
Mrs Trebend pondered, then made up her mind. “Five minutes, and not a second more.” She beckoned to a kitchen maid. “Keep pouring in the lamb stock and the carrot juice, a little at a time, and stir. Do not let it boil over. It must simmer. Do you hear, girl? Simmer not boil.”
“Yes, Cook.”
“And, Goforth!”
The scullery maid sidled in from her workplace. “Cook?”
“I see half a dozen saucepans all in need of washing up. Hop to it!”
“Yes, Cook.”
“Why can’t you be more attentive to your duties, you dozy creature? It isn’t as if they are that arduous.”
Goforth bit her lip, looking as though she had much to say to Mrs Trebend but was prohibited from doing so by her lowly station. “Sorry, Cook. I shall try harder, Cook.”
“See that you do.” Wiping her hands on a cloth, Mrs Trebend ushered Holmes and me out of the kitchen.
“Well?” she said.
“I am interested to learn about the ghost you saw not so long ago,” said Holmes.
“Oh. That.”
“Would you be so kind as to rehearse the details of the incident, and also show us where you saw this apparition. It was in the east wing, was it not?”
She shook her head warily. “I’m not sure as I’d be willing, Mr Holmes. It was the most frightening thing, and I don’t much care even to think about the
incident, let alone relive it. Besides, it happened in the east wing, as you say, and the journey there and back will by itself use up the best part of your five minutes.”
“It would help a great deal with our enquiries. I would, moreover, regard it as a personal favour.” Although Holmes had no particular fondness for the opposite sex and had developed none of the finer feelings for them which motivate most men, he was perfectly capable, when required, of affecting the kind of urbane masculine charm that was known to win women over. Nor, with his aquiline profile and high widow’s peak, was he unhandsome, and when he softened his usually piercing gaze a certain way, it lent his eyes a captivating twinkle. In most cases the results were favourable to him, and Mrs Trebend proved no exception.
“Very well then,” said she with a mild sigh. “I know enough about you to know you are a persistent fellow and rarely take no for an answer.”
“Watson’s writings do perhaps exaggerate my tenacity when I am on a case, but not much. If it makes any difference, we are both formidable fellows, he and I. I seriously doubt any spectre, even the most ill-intentioned, would dare show its face while you are in our company.”
While Mrs Trebend escorted us to the east wing, Holmes sought corroboration of the facts that we already knew about her ghostly encounter, although he did not reveal that Shadrach Allerthorpe was their source. “From what we have been told, reports about strange sounds in the east wing started not long after Perdita Allerthorpe’s unfortunate demise.”
“I discounted them myself, at first,” said Mrs Trebend. “I mean, in a building like this, as large as this, there’s bound to be the odd creak and moan, isn’t there? Floorboards warping as the weather changes. Window casements straining in their frames when a gale blows in off the moors. Then there’s the mice scuttling around behind the wainscoting; we lay down traps for them, of course, but you can never catch them all. Yet time and again I was hearing tales about noises that allegedly were not… normal.”
“From whom? Was it just fellow members of staff? No one else?”
Sherlock Holmes and the Christmas Demon Page 10